All the Girls
by Lilliane
Summary: when you cut paper, you're confused by your chains of boys and girls. she's a pretty paper princess, you won't say. set during hp5. pg13 for thematic elements and sensuality, just to be safe.


**notes:** this is set during the holidays in _harry potter and the order of the phoenix_. you know, after harry thinks voldemort is possessing him, and sirius is beside himself with joy knowing that he won't be alone on christmas day...

_

* * *

Next time, _she thinks. _Next time, it won't be over something stupid. Next time, we'll talk like rational beings. Next time, he won't say things he doesn't mean._

"There _is_ more to life than books, you know!" was the last thing Ron had yelled over his shoulder. The slam of the door still rings in her sensitive ears.

_Next time._

She drops her head into her hands.

* * *

_Next time,_ she thinks. _Next time, he'll meet my eyes. Next time, we'll say things more than superficial. Next time, he'll open the door._

It's her turn to leave the tray of food at Harry's door. No one says it, but it's all just a routine disappointment. She wishes she could say she's not used to it. But as with everything them, it's always about silences.

When she reaches the end of the hallway, she listens for the door that doesn't open.

_Next time.

* * *

_

"Ginny, hand me those potatoes please."

There is the kitchen and a dinner. Tonight is Christmas Eve, which has always meant working with raw food and bare hands while the boys snuck out and played pranks among the tinsel. The thing is, Hermione is the only one not used to the noise.

"Merlin's beard, if they Apparate from one room to another one more…Hermione, dear," Molly says a little more loudly, and Hermione can't help but feel that anxious-to-please knot in her stomach again, "are you sure you're alright?"

Hermione looks down at the sauce she's stirring. Her knuckles are turning white. It stands as a cold irony that for as large and empty a place as the Black mansion is, fussy mothers and curious brothers can _still_ overhear rows and hushed arguments.

But after all, she's an only child. She doesn't know how to share.

"Yes, I'm fine," Hermione says to the whisk in her hand. She won't look at Mrs. Weasley. Stronger minds than hers have confessed to far too much under the matriarch's piercing gaze.

Instead, Hermione looks at Ginny. (She's not sure why she does. She'll think about it tomorrow.) But Ginny's eyes carry that sort of penetration too, tainted with a sense of mystery. Not for the first time, Hermione thinks that Ginny and Harry together is at the very least, a disaster in the making.

Hermione blushes. Ginny drops her gaze.

"You can do better than Ron. You know that."

Hermione looks at the other girl again, her mouth open, but Molly Weasley swats her daughter on the arm.

"Don't you say that about your brother!"

"I'll say what I please!" Ginny fires back. "He's a selfish, immature prat sometimes, and Hermione—"

She waits, but Ginny stops, her visage full of mutiny. Abruptly, she begins peeling the potatoes again. It's not until Hermione lets out her breath that she knows she was holding it.

_Thunk thunk thunk_ sings the knife that Molly Weasley is overseeing. Hermione catches a glance of Ginny tucking her red hair behind her ears, and wonders briefly about the younger girl's thin wrists.

"Well, whatever the problem was, I'm sure you two will figure it out soon enough."

Hermione smiles and sighs. She thinks that Molly Weasley was always the woman who became everyone's second mother, whether they wanted her to or not.

_Crack!_

"It's a new world, I see."

"Christmas this year is proving to be insufferable."

"_Sirius_ is being insufferable."

"Singing his damn carols left and right—"

"We agree with Ginny, by the way," Fred says to his mother.

"—enough to make me nauseous."

"Too right," Fred says, overriding Mrs. Weasley. He dips a finger into the sauce and tastes it, then makes a face.

"Too much salt, Hermione, but you've got enough water as it is…"

"Speaking of Hermione—"

"—can we talk about you for a minute?"

"Um," says Hermione, but this is one of those times when the Weasley twins act as two sides of a brain in rapid communication.

"Selfish prat indeed! For one thing, who in their right mind thinks they can win an argument against Hermione Granger?"

"Who except Dumbledore, that is," George says with a wink.

"Yeah, but we're not sure he _is_ in his right mind sometimes, are we?"

"That's not the point, Fred! The point is that Hermione is far too intelligent to lose to just anyone, and Ron is making an arse of himself trying."

"Though I reckon our dear baby brother may have an ulterior motive to his random bouts of unpleasantness."

"You are very attractive when you get worked up, m'dear," George says to Hermione, and his twin winks at her too.

As always, for that first crucial second Hermione considers blushing, or pretending to lose her temper. Instead, she decides that these moments are hers. And why should she not claim them for her silent pleasures? She smiles at the twins, pleased. (But she still can't help the rosy glow that paints and whispers itself over her face.)

"Boys!" Molly Weasley cuts in sharply. "If you're not going to help with the Christmas Dinner, then go help Sirius with the decorations!"

The twins look at each other.

"Did we not complain about how much we loathe Sirius right now?"

"I could've sworn I mentioned it…"

"Not that Sirius needs help with those bloody decorations anyway. I thought I heard him say something about putting Father Christmas hats on those awful elf heads, and if he thinks he's going to convince me to touch one of those things…"

Hermione's nostrils flare.

"Good going, George. Now Hermione's going to treat us to a lecture on house elf equality or other—"

"Out of the kitchen!"

"Alright, alright, keep your shirt on!"

"Don't look so sour, Ginny," George says, bumping his finger under his sister's chin. "We only get so many chances to flirt with our little brother's friends—"

"Especially when you consider just how many of them he has."

They share a chuckle, but no one else joins in. It's nothing new.

_Crack!

* * *

_

Here's a secret: girls are never ready for their interests to become interesting in _other_ people's eyes.

By nine o'clock, she still won't know this.

* * *

Hermione climbs the stairs alone that night. It's early for Christmas Eve, but Ginny has already gone to bed, and Hermione just doesn't feel like walking on eggshells anymore.

It's all about waiting, these days. She realizes, they're all waiting, for different people, for each other. They watch each other wait, but it's a glacial impasse. That won't change, not until Christmas Day at least, when tradition and noise conspire to make one hide one's favorite demons. And then they'll change their minds as to who they're waiting for.

She's tired, she knows. She thinks she doesn't want to wait anymore. Not for Ron, not for Ginny…no, not even for Harry. There was a time when she lived by her books and her rules. She remembers, though she usually tries not to.

Friends run her a high debt for the price of loneliness.

Hermione opens the door, then starts. Ginny is wide-eyed as a cat on the second bed.

"I thought you had gone to sleep," Hermione murmurs, just as Ginny says, "I knew you would come up soon."

There is a silence. Hermione stares at Ginny's wrists.

"What makes you say that?"

Hermione crosses the room to her dark brown suitcase. No, she still won't unpack. It should be a sign, but it's something else she won't think about.

"You wanted to hide from my brother."

"I don't _hide_—"

"Yes you do. You did this time."

Hermione stops rummaging. Her hands are caught between cotton and something like cashmere. Her back is to the girl on the bed. If she is smart, it will stay that way.

"I don't hide."

She pulls out a cotton nightshirt and flannel pants.

Ginny snorts.

"Whatever. I still stand by what I said before. Arguing all the time…I ask you…"

They say the opposite of love is not hate but indifference. Sometimes Hermione thinks that if she had her way, she would be in Ginny's place.

Her hands clench around the plastic buttons.

"I didn't see Harry tripping over himself to pay _you_ any special attentions."

Ginny gasps. (It really is more like a hiss.) She stands off the bed, her fists at her sides.

"That has nothing to do with—"

"Oh, just stop it, Ginny!" Hermione snaps as she turns. She's almost scared by the sounds coming from her mouth, but it's also a secret thrill. Hermione never guides any of her moments anymore. No one ever told her that girls have to struggle to _live_.

"It's pathetic how you keep _mooning_ over him, like he's going to change his mind if you just wait long enough!"

"Hey!" Ginny steps closer. "Who I fancy and what I do about it is none of your business!"

"So you can tell me who to chase, but I can't say _anything_ about your love life?"

Ginny flushes, then her eyes narrow.

"I was speaking out of concern for your wellbeing," she whispers. Hermione moves closer to the other girl, wondering briefly how fire can burn in brown eyes.

"He'll _ruin_ you, Hermione. He'll take everything from you, just like he's doing to Harry."

"And you don't think Harry will do the same thing to _you_? You really don't think he'll drive you mad with his push-and-pull out of—what was it, 'concern for your wellbeing'?"

"He wouldn't—he's better than that…"

"Honestly, when are you going to grow out of these romantic childhood delusion of your kni—"

Ginny grabs Hermione's head, and kisses her. She's not gentle, no, not by any means. When she clenches Hermione's hair, the other girl gasps. Hermione's lips are softer than a white cotton bed on beach mornings, softer than any dream Ginny could have had. Ginny feels euphoria.

The thing is, Ginny has never taken the time to think about whether or not _these_ were her preferences. But this girl…_this girl_. To Ginny, Hermione has always been everything a person should be. To Ginny, Hermione is a real lady. But Ginny was never content with idolizing and admiration. She's the youngest. She never learned the meaning of _distance_.

Ginny wraps an arm around the other girl's thin shoulders, if only to pull her closer. Hermione hesitantly places her palms on Ginny's shoulder blades. But when Ginny tries to slip her tongue between the other girl's lips (this is the excuse; neither of them thinks about the way their pelvises felt against each other, and what it could mean), Hermione pulls away.

"I—oh god…"

"Hermione—" Ginny begins, but Hermione turns away before she can finish.

Hermione breathes. Ginny is dizzy from the change, the closeness and then the wide gulf. She rubs a hand across her forehead. When wishes are fulfilled, she thinks, they should bloody well _stay_ that way.

Hermione straightens her shoulders, then raises her head.

"It's late. We should go to sleep."

Her voice is loud as crystal, and twice as clear. As cold. Ginny frowns. To be honest, she didn't know what she was expecting.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

* * *

The night knows Hermione as this: confused. Excited. Glowing. A secret. Doubting. Ron. _My parents will kill me_. Molly Weasley. _This is stupid and immature…isn't it? _Why. Why why why. _Ugh. I need sleep._

The night knows Ginny as this: confused. Relieved. Those short-circuit desires granted—finally. Glowing. A secret. Harry. _What does this mean?_ Worried._ Is this the end? _No sleep tonight.

* * *

When Ginny comes down the stairs, she wishes she wore a different skin. She's the youngest, so it's not the first time.

She didn't count her presents this morning. It's nothing new.

"Happy Christmas, Ginny dear." Her mum smiles brightly up at her. Even from here, Ginny can see the shadows under her mother's eyes. She thinks she'll never be so consumed for domestic perfection that she'll lose sleep over three home-cooked meals.

She won't apologize for the thought.

"Here, sit down. Toast? Eggs? Kippers?"

Ginny lets her mother pile all three on to her plate. She knows how this will end. She'll eat as much as she can until she's halfway through, and then her brothers—one, two, all, it never matters—will steal the rest. This is not new.

What is new is that she doesn't really care. She woke up to an empty room this morning, and lay in bed for a few minutes with a queasy stomach. She thinks she couldn't eat much if she tried.

"Oh Hermione, there you are! Are the boys up yet?"

Ginny stills. Her concentration shifts. She can't see what's in front of her for not looking at the doorway. She's suddenly aware of how gracelessly she's been chewing her toast.

"Yes, but they're still unwrapping their presents…"

_I'll look up_, Ginny thinks suddenly. _I'll look. Just once. If she smiles, it means…it _must_ mean everything is alright. If she smiles._

"Well…here. What would you like? Breakfast is still hot…"

There is a soft thud. Ginny looks up.

Hermione smiles.


End file.
